


Spider Bite

by GrimRevolution



Series: Muscle Mass [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, She's an A+ Badass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 16:03:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1694213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrimRevolution/pseuds/GrimRevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha had only wanted to buy some cherries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spider Bite

“Spider venom comes in many forms. It can often take a long while to discover the full effects of the bite. Naturalists have pondered this for years: there are spiders whose bite can cause the place bitten to rot and to die, sometimes more than a year after it was bitten. As to why spiders do this, the answer is simple. It's because spiders think this is funny, and they don't want you ever to forget them.”

_Anansi Boys_

Neil Gaiman

* * *

This story starts with a bag of cherries.

Well, it doesn’t really _start_ with a bag of cherries, because there was always a reason to go and buy that bag of cherries, why it was needed at that explicit time, and who, exactly needed it. So it’s fair to say that the prequel to this story started with Steve looking at Natasha and telling her that he’ll make a cherry-amaretto tart if she went to the store down the street and picked up a bag of cherries.

Manipulation oozed from the idea, playing on her love for desserts and the colour red, but she couldn’t find herself to be annoyed.

It was, after all, only a bag of cherries.

She wrapped it up in one of those plastic bags sitting by the fruit, made plans to come back later (because if Steve was willing to make cherry related products she’d be inclined to help him out a bit), and headed towards the checkout, wallet already in hand.

Stepping up behind a man wearing a black Yankees baseball cap, torn up jeans, and a muscle shirt, Natasha glanced around, reading the signs on the walls, looking over magazines in racks and wondered if she should pick up the newest National Geographic for Bruce—the picture on the front cover was India lit up by the Festival of Lights and boasted about an article about the history and tradition of the holiday.

What the hell? She grabbed the magazine (and two sticks of Hubba Bubba, _sue her_ ), rolled it up under her arm and checked her watch simply for nothing better to do.

“—What do you mean you can’t fucking refund it?”

The man in the baseball cap and muscle shirt slammed the hardback book he had been carrying down on the counter in front of the clerk. A few people around Natasha jumped, turned, and stared (they had been doing their own little thing too, not paying attention). The redhead desperately wished to open up one of those packets of gum to blow bubbles and snap.

Steve was probably preparing the tart right now, if not dinner.

Clint was no doubt outside the store trying to figure out what she was getting.

Tony would be planning his arrival with Bruce to be at just the right moment (no, seriously, they all knew he did. She caught his car sitting at the corner of the block once. He was _pathetic_ about entrances).

Thor was... well, who knew what _Thor_ was doing. He was probably going to be dragged along with Tony and Bruce if he didn’t stay back with Jane Foster at the tower.

She needed to call Hill back about that book she had lent to her a few weeks ago. That stupid little thing about strange and funny historical facts that Steve had bought on a whim from a store when he had gotten back from Russia. Natasha pulled out her phone, pressed the home button to check her text messages and then scrolled through her to-do list.

There was, she could admit, not a lot on it now-a-days. It was filled up by meetings in D.C. and Tony’s desire to help her make a more efficient suit for her and Hawkeye.

Oh, and Steve.

It was embarrassing how many things on her list were to do something for Steve. That man was able to weasel his way through anything, Captain America persona be damned.

“Sir, I cannot refund that book without a receipt,” the store clerk said, shaking his head. How old was he? Teenager? Close to twenties? Maybe a college student. His hands were trembling, wiping on the dark blue apron.

Blue. Most of the aprons she saw in stores were green. That was remarkably refreshing. Clint told her one time he was surprised that people in the meat department didn’t wear red. Colour coded food departments.

She wasn’t against them wearing red.

She wasn’t against anyone wearing red.

Natasha tugged at her own, scarlet t-shirt (stolen from Tony’s closet because _why the hell not?_ ) underneath the black zip-up sweatshirt that was two sizes too big for her (it had belonged to Steve before he just threw his hands up and told her to ‘just keep it!’).

Her eyes sharpened at the sweat beading on the back of the neck that belonged to the man standing in front of her. His face was turning an interesting shade of puce, eyes bulging. “The fuck you can’t!” One ham-like fist reached out and snatched up the clerk by the neck of his shirt, almost wrenching the boy over the counter. Spittle flew, a vein throbbed on a red-purple face.

It was highly unattractive, in Natasha’s opinion.

(She just wanted her damn bag of cherries for Christ’s sake.)

Somebody had grabbed a phone—another employee—and looked as if they were dialling the police.

 _Don’t break his limbs_ , she told herself. _You don’t need to break any limbs, he’s an idiot._

Then, a meaty fist pulled back and Natasha sighed softly to herself and wondered why she had to deal with these problems? Why didn’t Clint have to? (Okay, well, no one really wanted Clint to handle _any_ of these problems, the man would have already grabbed the thug by the shoulder, spun him around, and it would have resulted in something similar to a late night bar brawl.)

What about Steve, though?

( _The man radiated goodness like a fucking sun_ , her mind supplied easily. _People just wanted to be good around him_ ).

Tony—didn’t even do his own shopping and Bruce would smash the place to bits.

 _Damn it_ , Natasha thought as her fingers twitched.

Her hand snapped out, grabbed the man by the back of his head and, with a sharp _thud_ and _snap_ , she slammed his face up against the counter, breaking his nose, and stepped back again as his limp body fell to the ground.

Unconscious, oops.

(Not so oops. Hopefully he woke up without realizing what had happened and would leave.)

The manager ran out, shouting—where was the guy, like, two minutes ago?—and Natasha kept her place in line, looked over her watch, checked her text messages and email. There was a trail of blood down the thug’s nose—sharp and crimson.

Someone opened up another line (efficiency, good, she liked that in a store—and in a lover, which reminded her of sex. When was the last time she had a nice long bout of sex?) and she stepped up first, handing over the bag of cherries, magazine, and packs of gum.

“Paper or plastic?”

“Paper,” she grinned pleasantly at the assistant manager—Clint wouldn’t be able to see through the bag, _ha ha ha_ , you snooze you lose, arrow boy—and handed over cash, accepted her change, and walked out of the door as the police arrived. _Got your cherries_ , she texted Steve.

 _That sounds like a horrible pick up line_ , he responded and then, _I_ _just put dinner in the oven. Tony and Bruce arrived a few minutes ago. See you soon._

Glancing up, the redhead caught sight of Clint grinning down from the rooftop. _Might be bringing home a stray bird,_ she typed out an added a little smiley face at the end because _she_ wasn’t born in the 20’s.

Natasha paused at the corner of a street to pull out one of the packs of Hubba Bubba. The chunk of sugar was sweet on her tongue, crunching in the way that only tiny bits of crystallized goodness did. She blew a bubble, popped it, and snapped the gum between her teeth.

The cherries were almost weightless in her hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Someone over the last few days told me to write something from Natasha's point of view so I did because she is such a little hipster troll mixed with white suburban dad syndrome. My love for her is eternal.


End file.
